Chapter 3
The photographer stood motionless, watching the bride left behind.
Malayah Hudson spoke coolly, “We won’t be taking the mating ceremony photos. I’ll still cover the cost.”
She left the photography set and went to her workplace to inform her boss of her resignation. She had five different part-time jobs, selected to accommodate her studies in healing arts and nutrition. Leaving them was straightforward enough.
Finally, she went to see Dereck Ray, the experienced healer who had been mentoring her.
With a warm smile, Dereck greeted her, “Malayah, you’re early today. Come on, I'll show you a new technique. It might help your mate’s leg.”
Malayah offered a faint smile, “No need, sir.”
“Oh? Did you two break the bond?”
She shook her head, “No, he just doesn't want me to treat him anymore.”
Dereck hesitated, wanting to say more, but Malayah simply nodded. “Thank you for everything these past few years.”
For the past three years, Dereck had supported her through emotional breakdowns.
“Ah, there’s no need to thank me,” he said. “But don’t worry too much about his leg. He’ll be able to stand on his own again.”
Malayah nodded without expression. Yes, he would stand again, but not with her.
Back home, she began packing up all the recipes she had developed over the years. Her study, once filled with easels and sketchbooks, was now crowded with books on anatomy, charts, and medical texts. It's often said that prolonged illness makes a person their own healer; Malayah was just shy of qualifying for a healer’s license.
As she packed, she stumbled upon a dusty box containing letters she’d once written to Desmond Martinez. There was a time when he loved her, replying to every letter with affection.
Malayah recalled Desmond’s words when they first started dating: “In this fast-paced world, you’re still writing love letters? That’s adorable, Malayah.”
Spreading the letters across the table, she struck a match and watched as the flames consumed them, erasing all traces of her love.
Meanwhile, her phone continued to ring.
After the fire had fully burned out, she glanced at her phone.
A slew of photos from Waverly Bell greeted her. They were mating ceremony photos of Desmond and Waverly.
As she swiped through the images, her heart grew heavier with each one. It felt as though a piece of her heart had been hollowed out, a chilling breeze blowing through the emptiness.
The so-called “business matter” Desmond was attending to turned out to be a mating ceremony photoshoot with Waverly.
A solitary tear splashed onto her phone screen.
Holding her phone, Malayah finally allowed herself to cry openly.
For three years, she had endured Desmond’s indifference, while he showered his affections on another woman.
Waverly's message taunted, “Take a good look at who Desmond truly loves.”
“You’re just a distraction for him. If you had any sense, you’d step aside willingly.”
“The one mating with him can only be me.”
Malayah lowered her eyes, wiping away her tears. “Waverly, as you wish.”
Desmond didn’t come home that night. Malayah, however, didn’t confront him, quietly packing her belongings instead. She continued to sleep in the study.
In the middle of the night, her phone rang; it was Desmond. “Malayah, I’m out discussing pack business and had a bit to drink. It’s quite late—can you come pick me up?”
“Malayah? You’re all I have. Can you come?”
Malayah glanced at the time—3:30 a.m.
What kind of pack business goes this late into the night?
She didn't call him out on the lie but instead got up, silently putting on her coat. “Okay, I’ll come get you.”